The Piccadilly Plot: Chaloner's Seventh Exploit in Restoration London (The Exploits of Thomas Chaloner)

by Susanna Gregory

  ‘How?’ asked Chaloner, puzzled. ‘You are not responsible for the arrangements.’

  ‘Cave was in my care, and I always take it upon myself to act as adviser to my clients’ kin,’ explained Kersey shortly. ‘People might think I recommended this unseemly course of action.’

  ‘I am sure they do not,’ said Chaloner soothingly. ‘What can you tell me about Jacob?’

  ‘A bit loutish – not like Cave at all. There was a dullness in his eyes that made me suspect he was not overly intelligent, and he looked as though he would enjoy a brawl. He wore nice clothes and had donned an especially black wig.’

  Chaloner rubbed his chin. Kersey’s description, like the curate’s, sounded uncannily like Elliot. Was it possible that Brilliana was right? That he had survived Cave’s attack and was avenging himself by shoving Cave in the ground without the pomp and ceremony that was his due? If the quarrel had been about her, and not about taking the wall as they had claimed, then it was certainly possible that their antipathy towards each other was powerful enough to result in petty spite.

  ‘Can you remember anything else about Jacob?’ he asked.

  ‘He listened attentively to all I said about the grand ceremony that was being arranged, and then shoved his brother in the ground first thing the following morning, employing a novice curate to say the prayers so that no questions would be asked. It was sly, mean-spirited and niggardly.’

  ‘Did he tell you where he lives?’

  ‘Near the sign of the Sun in Covent Garden. Or so he claimed. I would pay him a visit myself and give him a piece of my mind, but I am too busy.’

  ‘Was Cave the only subject you discussed?’

  ‘No, actually,’ replied Kersey, and Chaloner was surprised to see hurt and anger in his face. ‘He looked at the table on which Cave lay, and told me it was disgraceful. No one has ever complained before and it offended me. I want you to look at it and tell me whether he was right.’

  Chaloner had no desire to inspect mortuary furniture, but Kersey was clearly upset, and he liked the man. He allowed himself to be led into the hall, recoiling at the powerful stench of burning that assailed his nostrils the moment the door was opened.

  ‘Turner’s family and servants,’ explained Kersey. ‘And Lord Lucas. A terrible tragedy.’

  He aimed for a table that looked no different to any of the others – it was sturdy and had been scrubbed so often that the wood was almost white. It was already occupied by someone else, and although Chaloner tried to prevent Kersey from whipping away the blanket – he did not want to see charred cadavers – he was too late.

  But it was not a blackened specimen that lay there. It was Newell, dead of a gunshot wound.

  Chaloner stared at the scout, his thoughts in turmoil. Newell was wearing the clothes he had sported when he had left the Piccadilly Company meeting with Harley and Lydcott at dawn, and was still slightly warm to the touch. He had not been dead for long.

  ‘He came in a few moments ago,’ explained Kersey. ‘An accident in St James’s Park – you know how people meet there to show off their new firearms. Well, he was demonstrating one to a party of interested onlookers, and he shot himself by mistake.’

  Chaloner seriously doubted it. ‘Newell was an experienced soldier. He would not have—’

  ‘There are witnesses: Secretary Leighton, Hyde, Mr O’Brien and the lovely Kitty to name but a few. These accidents are not uncommon, because firearms are notoriously capricious.’

  ‘But Newell was a professional scout. He would not have killed himself by accident, no matter how temperamental the gun.’

  Kersey shrugged. ‘Yet here he is, lying on my table. Tell me what you think of my furniture, Chaloner. Should I invest in new stock?’

  But all Chaloner’s attention was on Newell. Experience told him that the scout had probably been looking down the barrel when he had squeezed the trigger, and the ball had taken him in the throat. There were two possibilities. Either Newell had committed suicide because he was losing his nerve over Teviot and whatever other dark matters he had embarked upon with the Piccadilly Company, or the gun had been fitted with an unusually fine firing mechanism.

  ‘The table,’ prompted Kersey worriedly. ‘Can you see anything wrong with it?’

  ‘No,’ replied Chaloner. ‘I suspect Jacob made the remark to disconcert you – and to prevent you from asking him too many questions.’

  ‘Well, it worked,’ said Kersey bitterly. ‘It stopped our conversation dead, and I have been distressed ever since – about the entire episode.’

  ‘Cave was killed by a man named James Elliot, who is supposed to have died of his wounds shortly afterwards. I do not suppose you had him in here, did you?’

  ‘No,’ replied Kersey with absolute conviction. ‘I have not had a stabbing victim for almost three weeks now.’

  Chaloner left the charnel house aware that he now had even more to do. He had to ask Leighton, O’Brien, Kitty and Hyde about what had happened to Newell; interview Addison about Tangier; visit the Sun in Covent Garden to speak to Jacob – assuming he was not Elliot, of course; and talk to Lester about the possibility that his friend was still alive. Then he was due to visit the Queen’s apartments, and he wanted to track down Harley – it was even more urgent that he cornered the scout now, given that he was the only one of the three left alive.

  His thoughts were so full of how to fit everything in that he failed to pay attention to his surroundings, and he was halfway down the lane before he became aware of several men walking towards him. They were advancing with grim purpose and it did not take a genius to see that they were there for him. There were too many to fight, so he turned, and had just broken into a run when he was faced with more men coming from the opposite direction. There were at least a dozen, all rough-looking types with cudgels.

  Was he going to have an ‘accident’ now? Was someone disappointed that he had escaped suffocation the previous night, and intended to rectify the matter? He looked around quickly but either by chance or design the men had chosen a part of the alley with walls that were too high to climb, and there were no windows or doors. He would have to fight.

  He drew his sword with one hand and the gun with the other, and stood with his back to the wall, waiting to see which side would strike first. He could not win against so many, but if he was going to die, then he would not be the only one to meet his Maker that day.

  ‘There is no need for that,’ said the man in the lead, faltering. Behind him, his fellows drew an assortment of swords and knives. ‘We only want a word.’

  Chaloner indicated with a gesture that he was to speak.

  ‘Not here,’ said the man. ‘Come with us.’

  ‘No.’ Chaloner levelled the gun at him.

  ‘We have orders to take you somewhere,’ said the man, eyeing it uneasily. ‘And it will be a lot more pleasant for everyone if you put down the weapons and come quiet, like.’

  ‘Orders from whom?’ demanded Chaloner.

  ‘We cannot say, but if you come with us, you will find out.’

  ‘Then I decline.’

  The man sighed and indicated that his cronies should advance. They obliged, slowly at first, but then in a rush when a puff of smoke told them that Chaloner’s dag had misfired. Cursing the thing, Chaloner used it as a club, bruising at least two of his assailants, while three others reeled away from his sword. But it was an unequal contest and it was not long before he went down under a hail of cudgels, fists and feet. A sack was pulled over his head and tugged so tight that it was difficult to breathe. He managed to free one hand, though, and heard a yelp of pain as he lashed out with it.

  ‘Tie him,’ ordered the leader urgently. ‘Quickly, before he injures anyone else.’

  ‘Easy for you to say, Doines,’ someone grumbled. ‘Standing there, giving orders, while we do battle with the devil.’

  Chaloner continued to struggle long after he was rendered helpless by an array of ropes, desperately seeking a weaknes
s in his bonds. There was none, and he felt himself lifted and tossed into the back of a cart. Doines clicked his tongue to a horse, which began to trot.

  He was not sure how many men piled themselves on top of him, but he could not ever recall a more uncomfortable journey. He tried to ask whether their orders entailed him arriving dead, but the sack muffled his words, and the sound he made encouraged someone to hit him. He felt himself grow light-headed from lack of air, and soon lost any sense of where he was being taken.

  Chapter 8

  By the time they arrived at their destination, Chaloner was dizzy and disoriented. He was aware of being carried, but did not have the strength to resist. He heard a swirl of voices as the sack was hauled off, but kept his eyes closed, to see what might be learned about his captors by feigning unconsciousness. The ropes were removed, and he was dragged forward.

  ‘What have you done to him?’ Chaloner’s heart sank when he recognised Williamson’s voice. ‘I specifically told you to invite him nicely.’

  ‘We did,’ came Doines’s aggrieved reply. ‘But he started to fight, and injured five of us. You cannot blame us for taking him down before he could do any more damage.’

  ‘I can and I do,’ snapped Williamson. ‘I need his help, and he is hardly going to agree to work with me now you have knocked him senseless, is he!’

  ‘I told you to let me fetch him,’ came another voice. It was Lester, and he sounded angry. ‘You should have listened.’

  Chaloner felt himself laid gently on a bench. Then a cloth began to wipe his face. He opened his eyes a fraction and saw the ministering angel was Lester, his ruddy face full of concern.

  ‘He would not have obliged you,’ argued Williamson. ‘I asked him to come here several times, and even sent a polite note with his wife. All were ignored. He does not like me, although I cannot imagine why. I have graciously overlooked all manner of injustices, insults and violations in the past – ones I would have killed another man for committing against me.’

  ‘This is not my fault,’ said Doines sullenly. ‘You said not to mention that it was you who wanted to see him, but he got suspicious when we refused to answer. It was—’

  ‘Leave,’ snapped Williamson. ‘Before I decline to pay you.’

  Footsteps crossed the floor, then a door opened and closed. Chaloner opened his eyes a little more, and saw he was in Williamson’s Westminster office. Lester was still looming over him, but the Spymaster had gone to sit at his desk. As far as he could tell there was no one else in the room, but in order to get free he would have to incapacitate both, and make an escape from a building that was full of Williamson’s clerks, spies and ruffians. Could he do it?

  ‘Perhaps we should summon a surgeon,’ said Lester worriedly. ‘Wiseman is the best. He is expensive, but I will bear the cost. This should not have happened.’

  Chaloner knew then that it was time to pretend to regain his wits, because Wiseman would not be fooled by his act. He sat up.

  ‘Thank God!’ exclaimed Lester. ‘I thought they had done you serious harm.’

  ‘He is awake?’ asked Williamson, coming to stand over them. ‘Good. Can he speak?’

  ‘Give him a moment to recover,’ snapped Lester. Then his voice softened. ‘Sit quietly for as long as you like, Chaloner. We shall talk only when you are ready.’

  ‘I am ready now,’ said Chaloner, unwilling to prolong the experience. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I am sorry violence was used to bring you here,’ said Williamson stiffly. ‘But a situation has arisen that means we must put aside our differences and work together. As we did in June.’

  ‘What situation?’ asked Chaloner, hoping he was not about to be given another mystery to unravel. He was struggling with the ones he had already.

  ‘One involving powerful men,’ replied Williamson soberly. ‘Members of government, wealthy merchants, and several less salubrious characters. Such as Fitzgerald the pirate. Do you know him?’

  ‘Not personally.’

  ‘He is an extremely dangerous individual,’ Williamson went on. ‘And I have reason to believe that he is behind the tragic deaths of Sir Edward Turner and Lord Lucas.’

  ‘Then arrest him,’ suggested Chaloner.

  ‘I cannot – I do not have evidence that will secure a conviction in a court of law.’

  ‘That has never stopped you before.’

  Williamson had cells for people whose trials would not win a verdict that he deemed to be in the public interest, and assassins available should he decide on a more permanent solution.

  ‘He is too prominent and well connected,’ explained Williamson. ‘And if you do not believe me, then ask your friend Thurloe. He was as wily a spymaster as ever lived, but even he could not defeat Fitzgerald. The man is not a normal criminal.’

  ‘I overheard him talking,’ said Chaloner. He spoke hesitantly, because it went against the grain to share information with someone he distrusted. ‘He said he has a master who gives him orders.’

  ‘Who is it?’ demanded Williamson, clearly horrified.

  ‘I do not know. Another member of the Piccadilly Company, perhaps.’

  ‘And there are plenty in that sinister organisation to choose from,’ interposed Lester grimly. ‘Brilliana and her brother Harley, Newell, Meneses, Margareta and Cornelis Janszoon, Jones, Pratt the architect. And those are just the ones we have identified. Most of them wear disguises to their gatherings.’

  Chaloner was about to point out that ‘Jones’ was stupid, rather than sinister, but there was always the possibility that Williamson did not know he was Thurloe’s brother-in-law, and there was no need to highlight the connection unnecessarily.

  ‘Newell is dead,’ he said instead.

  Williamson’s eyes opened wide. ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I have just seen his body. He was shot while showing off with a gun – an accident, apparently. It was witnessed by several people, including Leighton, Hyde, and your friend O’Brien and his wife.’

  ‘Kitty?’ Williamson was stricken. ‘I must go to her at once. To comfort her!’

  ‘What about O’Brien?’ asked Chaloner archly. ‘Does he not warrant comfort, too?’

  Williamson glanced at him sharply, and Chaloner wished he had held his tongue. Alluding to the Spymaster’s dalliance with his old friend’s wife had been unwarranted and reckless. He tried to think of a way to mitigate the damage, but Lester was already talking.

  ‘Far too many people connected to this matter have died,’ he said unhappily. ‘Turner, Lucas, Proby, Congett, Reyner and his mother, Elliot, Cave, and now Newell.’

  ‘What matter?’ asked Chaloner. ‘Precisely?’

  Williamson looked pained. ‘That is the problem: we are not sure. However, we suspect that two organisations are at loggerheads: the Piccadilly Company and the Adventurers. Deaths have occurred in both.’

  Chaloner played devil’s advocate. ‘The Adventurers cannot be involved in anything untoward. The King is a member, and so is the Queen and half the Privy Council.’

  ‘I doubt whatever is underway involves the entire corporation,’ explained Williamson shortly. ‘However, there are rumours that something terrible will unfold next Wednesday—’

  ‘St Frideswide’s Day,’ put in Lester helpfully.

  ‘—and it must be stopped,’ Williamson finished. ‘Unfortunately, we cannot do it with the resources currently at our disposal.’

  ‘Doines is Williamson’s best man, and you saw what he is like,’ elaborated Lester, oblivious to the Spymaster’s irritated grimace. ‘So if we are to thwart it, we shall need other help. Yours.’

  ‘No,’ said Chaloner, standing abruptly and wondering whether he would be allowed to walk out. As he did so, his eye fell on a pile of letters on a table, and he recognised the signature of the one on top. It raised another question, but it was not one he would be able to ponder until he was alone again.

  ‘Please wait,’ said Williamson softly, and Chaloner suddenly became aw
are of the lines of strain in his face. ‘I could use your family to coerce you, as I have done in the past – and as I am currently doing to Lester – but I would rather you helped me willingly.’

  ‘I am sure you would,’ said Chaloner. ‘Swaddell is gone, so you are desperate to replace—’

  ‘Swaddell has not gone anywhere,’ interrupted Williamson tiredly. ‘The tale of our break is a canard, so he can inveigle himself into the confidence of those we believe to be plotting. At great personal risk, I might add. The only people who know this are Lester, and now you.’

  Chaloner was horrified on Swaddell’s behalf. ‘Sharing such information is hardly—’

  ‘Swaddell is my friend, and I have put his life in your hands by confiding in you. If there was another way to make you trust me, I would have taken it, believe me. But I am faced with a crisis, and I need the help of an experienced operative with the right connections.’

  ‘I have no connections,’ said Chaloner truthfully.

  ‘At least listen to what we have to say before turning us down,’ said Lester reasonably.

  ‘You are uncomfortable here in my office,’ surmised Williamson astutely. ‘Would it help if we went somewhere else? We could sit in my carriage and ride around London.’

  ‘A coffee house,’ determined Chaloner. They were public places, which meant Williamson was less likely to try to harm him. ‘The Paradise by Westminster Hall.’

  Williamson scowled. ‘Certainly not. It will be busy, and we need to converse in private.’

  ‘It has private booths at the rear,’ said Lester quickly, as Chaloner stepped towards the door to indicate the interview was over. ‘And we are all in need of a medicinal draught.’